The Final Caveat
by oldmule
Summary: A different outcome and a different future beckon, but where will it all end? Harry and Ruth angst and romance. With epilogue.
1. Chapter 1

**Set in 8.1, immediately after Lucas and Ros burst into the warehouse killing Mani.**

* * *

Mani lies on the floor, no longer a dead man walking.

Lucas slices the blade through the bonds that bind Ruth's hands.

She is still sobbing, her eyes wide and unforgiving. Harry tears his gaze away from the pain of his accuser, towards Ros who is on the phone talking with Malcolm.

She ends the call and squats down before Ruth, taking one of her hands between her own.

"They're safe, Ruth. It's okay."

Ruth stares at her, mouth still open, the sob caught in the back of her throat, shaking her head.

"Nico and George, they're fine," she repeats.

"George?" asks Harry, verbalising what Ruth cannot, "We saw him. He was -"

"It was a tranquiliser, not a bullet. He's groggy, that's all."

The sob, no longer caught, wrenches itself clear and the tears begin again.

* * *

Harry walks by the river, in the distance he spots them, Ruth and Malcolm. He has not seen, nor spoken to her since they left the warehouse.

And now here he is, preparing to say goodbye once more.

"Thank you, Malcolm, thank you so much," she hugs him and with some embarrassment he smiles at her, wishing her all the very best and then he turns away, passing Harry with a small nod and a comprehension of the pain shielded in his friend's eyes.

Her smile fades and she looks out, away, over the river.

"You're going," he says.

"This afternoon."

"I'd rather we arranged somewhere new for you, somewhere safe."

"Safe," she snaps at him, "Really, you think so?!"

"A new identity, new -" "

"We're going home."

"You are home, Ruth."

He says it quietly, not looking at her, but at the city.

"You would have let them both die."

He has no answer.

"You would have left me with nothing, but, hey, as long as you think I'm 'home'!"

Her voice drips with sarcasm. Her tongue wants to wound.

"I'm sorry," is all he can manage."

They stand, neither looking at the other.

"All we seem to do is say goodbye," he says finally, "and all I seem to do is hurt you."

"This…" she nods her head towards the city, "..isn't my life anymore, Harry. My life is ..."

"Simple and elegant," he answers for her.

She turns to him, "Yes. Simple and elegant. With my family."

And through the pain, he smiles, possibly with the saddest eyes she has ever seen, though her anger blinds her to the hurt and instead she sees only betrayal.

" I wish you and your family only happiness, Ruth."

And though he means it, the words are hard to say.

It is at this moment and to his great surprise, that the family that is hers, arrive.

She bends to hug Nico, as George looks at the older man before him.

"You're Harry?" he asks.

Harry nods and offers out his hand. The shake is firm and strong, the hand tanned, the body lean and tall, the chin chiselled, the smile warm. And he feels the burn and the inadequacy.

"Thank you for arranging our return home so quickly."

Harry nods, once more, "Safe journey."

George winds a strong, athletic, protective arm around Ruth and she looks up at him smiling. The smile gone as she glances back to Harry.

"Goodbye, Harry," she says, without sentiment.

"Goodbye, Ruth," he says, as she already turns away.

A middle aged man with a tired and weary face, dressed in a saville row suit, stands by the river. He watches three figures walk away. He watches a family walk away. He does not move. She does not look back.

He wonders if this is the most intolerable moment of his life. He ponders loss and hurt and lonliness. And then he turns back to the grid, for where else is there for him to go.

* * *

It has not been easy to make George understand all that has happened. He is still somewhat ignorant of the true danger they were all in; of the life that she has led; and all that it might have meant and still could. But he will not be moved, even when she herself tries to persuade him that they may be safer with a life elsewhere. This is his home, this is where they stay.

And like a different world in a different lifetime, the sun and the sea and the heat reassure them that they are safe and all is as it was and should be.

But not for Ruth.

She waits to settle, hopes to refind the contentment she had found there. But it does not come.

It feels like the holiday is over. The fear for their safety remains. The knowledge, the guilt that she was the one who nearly got them killed overwhelm her. Harry's words sound in her head ...

" ...all I seem to do is hurt you."

And for a moment those eyes are all she sees: those sad, hurt eyes. And she knows that he did not drag them back, he did not threaten to hurt anyone, he did nothing but his job, regardless of his own feelings. He did the thing she left him to do, that only he could do.

And she feels regret.

* * *

Harry sits at his desk, in his study, in his empty house, with his empty bottle of scotch. He works his way through a pile of security files that he would normally have finished on the grid, but this night he finds it too hard to sit there looking out at her deserted desk. Reminded.

With a sigh he turns to the computer and the email that has just descended upon his inbox.

He does not recognise the sender, but it is his private account, unknown to all but a handful.

 ** _Harry, I need to tell you that I'm sorry, truly I am_.**

It is her. His breathing is deep, his heart surges with a rush of adrenalin normally only reserved for gunfire and bomb threats.

It is her.

 ** _I was wrong to blame you. It wasn't your fault._**

 ** _I am sorry for the things I said, for leaving without making peace with you. I hope you will forgive me?_**

 ** _Please give my thanks to the team for all they did to_ _help us, I was remiss with them too, I fear._**

 ** _Hopefully work will be quiet and bring you some respite from having to save the country every other day!_**

 ** _I wish you only happiness too, Harry._**

 ** _I always will._**

 ** _Yours, R_**

She sits on the terrace, looking out at the lights of a cruiser out at sea, absentmindedly swatting away a mosquito attracted by the glow of her laptop. She imagines Harry at his desk, working late, reading her words. She pictures his face as clearly as if he were sitting here opposite her.

She does not wait long for the reply.

 ** _Thank you, Ruth, your words mean more than you can know. And of course, I would always forgive you, not that there is anything really to forgive._**

 ** _You were in an intolerable situation, one which you believed you had escaped and left behind._**

 ** _I will pass on your message to the team, though they of course understood your haste to return home._**

 ** _Here, there is little respite. The job can only be described as ruthless. As ever. Truth be told, there is a hole on the grid which I cannot fill and I often find myself buried, mired in its emptiness. But still the world needs saving.  
_**

 ** _I have done too many things to be happy Ruth, but you, you deserve all that and more. A born spook you may be, but sadly, in order to be a long serving spook you need a cold, hard heart and gloriously on that count, you will forever fail. Whereas I ... I will be here, making the call, the cold heartless bastard that I must be._**

 ** _I wish you always the life of simple elegance you crave._**

 ** _Yours, always,_**

 _ **H** _

The cruiser disappears behind the black mountainside. Ruth is lost in thought, as the headlights of George's car swing around the hill towards her.

In south west London Harry slides open the top drawer of his desk and takes out the picture that has been missing for over two years from the top of Ruth Evershed's personnel file. He gazes at it.

For tonight his world feels a little kinder.


	2. Chapter 2

He slides his arms around her. She feels his heat at her back as he whispers passionate words against the nape of her neck. And as he pulls her with him, she follows to the bedroom. When he enters her, she is aware of the sound of cicadas outside and the sultry heat of the room and the soft sheets beneath them. When she hears the sound of a passing car on the dusty road outside, she knows.

* * *

Harry opens his briefcase. He lifts out the photograph and reattaches it to the folder. Her file is complete once more and now he must learn to live with it and move on. Perhaps not move on. Plough on. Yes, that seems more feasible. He will plough on.

The office door slides partially open and hastily he puts away the folder.

Ros is standing, neither in, nor out.

"Yes! This better be good?" he threatens.

"I'm sure you'll think so."

She slides the door open fully.

Harry is on his feet, shock etched across his face.

Ruth steps tentatively over the threshold as Ros closes the door behind her.

It is five weeks since he has seen her, two weeks since their emailed apologies.

"Is everything okay?" he asks anxiously.

"I need to talk to you, Harry."

And for a moment all he can see are her cyrstal blue eyes, bright pools in a sunkissed face.

He beckons her to sit. But she does not.

"Not here. There's a bar, Jacksons. At seven. Will you be there?"

He nods, mutely.

She turns away with no further clue and he moves to the window watching the pod doors closing behind her.

* * *

She is in a quiet corner when he finds her. On the table a bottle of wine and two glasses. He sits across from her without greeting.

"Is George with you?"

"He's at home."

"Are you in trouble?"

She hesitates, "Yes."

She pours a little of the wine and takes a drink but does not elaborate further.

"What do you need me to do, Ruth?"

And now she laughs. A wry laugh.

He waits, confused, concerned.

"What did you think when Mani brought me in?" she asks.

"Think?" he questions, "I'm not sure I was thinking a great deal."

"You must have been weighing the possibilities: the chances of what I'd told them about the uranium; what I could tell them; what scenarios that left you with?"

And now he laughs. A wry laugh.

"In that moment I was weighing how it was possible to feel such horror and yet joy at seeing you."

She looks at him, eyebrow raised.

"It had been a long time, Ruth."

"The world moves on, Harry."

"It does."

"But not you, perhaps?" she asks.

"No. Still here. Whether I'm wanted, or not."

The comment hangs in the air between them. He pours himself some wine.

"Ruth, please let me help you if you're in trouble," he speaks quietly, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, "I know you said you didn't want it, but we could move you all: new place, new legends."

"Do you know what I thought, Harry? When I walked into that room? When I walked back into danger and deceit, secrets and subterfuge?"

"I imagine you cursed the whole damn lot of us... Me especially."

She shakes her head.

"I thought about all the times I'd imagined seeing your face again and how I'd feel."

He stares at her, unsure of where this is going: unsure of what she imagined; of how she would feel; of how she did, and still does feel.

But he dare not ask.

And she does not say.

"Yesterday I swam in the sea in the morning and shopped in the market. I cooked fish and drank wine. And I slept with George."

His face betrays nothing.

But his hand grips the glass a little tighter, though not as tight as the muscles that knot in his gut.

"You can still have that life, Ruth, if you let us help."

"Us? It was 'you' before. You who wanted to help me?"

"Me then, let _me_ help _you_."

"Can you give me my name back, Harry?"

He hesitates, surprised, thrown by the question.

"Your identity, yes possibly," he falters, "but not your name, Ruth. It's gone already... you have your husband's name."

"I want to come back ... here."

"To England? You've both discussed this?"

"Can you fix it, Harry? Can you give me myself back? No legends."

He gazes into the glass, mind and emotions swirling with the wine. And then he nods, imperceptibly, thinking aloud.

"I'll talk to the Home Secretary... Mace is out of the way now… I'll do everything I can."

He looks up at her.

"I'll fix it, Ruth. If that's what you want, I promise you that I'll make it work."

"Thank you," she says, sliding from her seat and pulling on her coat.

"And can I come back to work?"

The sense of surprise washes over him again: another wave to knock him from his feet. His head nods before his mouth has time to form the words.

"Of course, Ruth…. Always."

"With one caveat," she warns, "can you promise to agree to that too, Harry?"

"Which is…?"

But she gives him no answer.

"Can you promise?"

"Yes."

And she turns away and is gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Writing as we go. Need to get this one out of my system, so it may even get resolved tonight. Thanks for reading.**

* * *

Half the contents of the desk surface crash to the floor. Under her breath Ruth curses and begins to disentangle the keyboard from the desklamp.

Ros shakes her head.

Jo smiles.

Lucas wonders if this is really the woman so revered by those who have worked with her.

Harry stands at his office window and watches. He has Ruth back. She may not be his, but she is back.

And that will do.

After an hour of wrestling with seat and desk and equipment she appears happy that all is as she wants it and begins the work. The work she thought she would never do again. The work, truth be told, she has missed. The adrenalin surge of discovery and satisfaction that she has missed.

But this time she is determined to temper it with life. With her life. With living.

"Alright?"

Harry suddenly stands close by.

She smiles.

"Who won, you or the lamp?"

She nods to the bin alongside the desk, from which sticks the head of the light.

"That would be one nil to me."

He laughs… and to all that hear it across the grid, it is the most welcome sound.

"You were never good with …'things'," he smiles.

"No," she laughs.

And the world feels good to Harry.

He turns back to his office and as he sits he realises that she has followed him.

She slides the door shut.

"I wanted to say thank you …for sorting the safe house."

"You didn't have a home here anymore. It was the least I could do."

She sits down opposite him as she has so many times in their past.

"But it's not the usual...uncared for ...hovel. And the garden makes a big difference. In fact I still think that someone's about to come knocking at the door asking us to get out of their house."

"They won't do that, Ruth. It's my house."

"What?" she looks at him, confused.

He stands to pour himself a drink. He does not ask her, he knows it is too early for her. In truth, it's too early for him.

"I kept it off the system, in case I ever needed it. And to be honest, about two weeks ago it could have fitted into the 'hovel' category but I had some work done, so that it would be a little more comfortable for you."

She gazes at his back and wonders if he will ever fail to surprise her and berates herself for judging him so often and so badly.

"Harry…"

He turns, glass in hand.

"…Will you come round tonight, so that we can say thank you?"

"You don't need to, Ruth."

"Please, I know George would like to."

Could she not see? Could she not realise that he would do anything for her? But that…to be there …with them together…could she not see?

"I …I don't think –"

"For me, Harry. At least come for me? You don't have to stay long, just for a moment…Please?"

The contents of the glass hit the back of his throat. And burnt.

"What time?"

She smiles as she stands, "Eight o'clock," and she moves to the door, "Thank you."

He shakes his head, as he finds himself alone.

"Great. An evening with Adonis."

And he reaches for the decanter.


	4. Chapter 4

Standing outside the house that is his. Waiting for the door to be opened by the love that is his. Preparing to be allowed into the family that is not, nor will ever be, his.

Harry hesitates. Breathes. Feels the bile rising. And knocks on the door.

"Hi," she says, looking comfortable, casual, carefree and beautiful.

"Hi," he says, glancing at his watch, "I haven't got long."

"Of course," she smiles, ushering him inside.

He glances around at the changes. It looks like a home. In the corner is the crate of books he has had sent over. She sees him register them.

"I can't tell you how much it means to have them back," she says, crossing to the crate and lifting out one of the many tomes that were, in another lifetime, hers.

"They seemed too precious to not keep. I know you would have taken them with you if you'd had the choice. I thought they'd make it feel more like home."

She nods and raises the book to her face, inhaling it …and the past.

"Would you like a drink?" she asks.

"I…" he doesn't want a drink. He wants to leave before this moment ends. Before the truth intervenes.

"You want to see George and get off?" she suggests.

He doesn't want to see George. He doesn't want to see her young, swarthy, young, fit, young husband.

"I need to go," is all he can say, the air feeling thin and unwelcome.

"He's not here, Harry."

"That's a shame," he lies, "well, tell him I said hello…perhaps some other time."

And he is heading for the door.

"He's in Cyprus."

He pauses, surprised.

"He's delayed?"

"You think he should be here already?" she asks, still rifling through the books, laying them on the table.

"He's your husband. I'm sure you want your family around you."

He's a good spook. By god, he's a good spook.

"He's not my husband."

She says it simply, straightforwardly, but for him it is neither simple nor straightforward.

"We were never married. We talked about it, discussed the guest list, but never married."

Harry feels his world spiralling around him.

"But he should still be here, Ruth."

"But he's not. He's not here because I don't want to be responsible for his death. I don't want to be responsible for an orphaned child. Because there are sacrifices that have to be made. Because I'm not worthy of them."

He looks at her in bewildered comprehension.

"Sit down, Harry."

He sits. His hand rubbing over his forehead and his eyes and down to his chin.

"I spent eighteen happy months living with George," she eventually says, with a sad smile, "and at some point in every day I thought of you."

He looks at her and his heart hammers in his chest and the air is thinner than before.

"But I got used to my life and I was content. It felt right and I realised that you were only a part of my past."

And the world spins on.

"And then I saw you...I saw you and I knew… I knew it was all a lie."

He doesn't know if he is the lie, or her other life that is the lie.

"I told you there was a caveat, Harry."

He is lost.

"A caveat?"

"You promised. Remember?"

He nods slowly, "I remember."

"Now comes the caveat."

Why does he dread this moment? What can she say that will spin his world more than it is spinning right now?

"I came back… to London…came back to the Grid …but with one condition."

"I'll take any condition, Ruth."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Anything. Just tell me."

"I'm only here, I'm only staying for…."

He looks at her, prepared for…all…for anything.

"The second date."

He doesn't understand. His face is creased and lined and pained and he wants to understand.

"I shouldn't have said no, we should have gone, it was simple and I was afraid and naïve and young. I'm not naïve anymore, Harry. And I'm not afraid and I feel a thousand years older than I am. A second date together, or I go. Because I want a life. What do you say?"

Harry stands in wonder, desperately comprehending what is being said. And when she is finally finished he knows what to do.

"Don't go anywhere," he says, already halfway to the door. And then he is through it and gone.

He had made a promise.


	5. Chapter 5

She opens the door.

He stands, supplies in hand.

"Thai?" he says, proffering the bags.

"I thought about booking a good restaurant, or the theatre but …I didn't want to wait."

She moves aside, smiling, letting him pass.

"I got too much, I wasn't sure what you would like," he is unloading the cartons and rifling in another bag, producing two bottles of wine, "White?"

She is moving around him, for plates and bowls and glasses. The two manoeuvre in a domestic dance that is both unfamiliar and yet not.

And when they sit down on opposite sides of the table the stillness and the silence and the relevance overtake them for a moment.

"Does this count?" he asks, apprehensively, "I can make it better, do it properly, if that's what you prefer?"

She raises her glass, "It counts, Harry."

He nods and takes her lead, tasting the wine, "not quite burgundy," is his final judgement.

They eat.

"I'm sorry, Harry, I know this whole situation must have been something of a rollercoaster for you. But I had a lot going on in my head. So much I needed to work through... until the moment I was certain."

"What decided it?"

She hesitates. Unwilling to answer.

"There was a moment?" he persists.

"Yes."

"Here?"

"In Cyprus... at night. In bed."

He nods, wanting and not wanting to ask; wanting and not wanting to know. He decides to bide his time. Not to ask and not to know and instead refreshes their glasses.

"How do you feel?" she asks.

"Truthfully?"

She nods.

"Nervous."

"Why?"

"Too used to saying, or doing, the wrong thing. Too often saying too little. Too many times when the world seemed to conspire," he smiles with a gentleness, he only rarely lets anyone see, "You name it, Ruth and it makes me nervous."

"When did you first know?"

He glances up at the question, unsure.

"That you loved me?" she clarifies.

She was right... naïve no more, it seemed.

"Tell me."

He hesitates.

"Can I refer back to my previous answer?" he asks, apprehensively.

"What? Too used to saying the wrong thing?" she smiles.

He nods.

"The truth, Harry. Just say the truth."

"When you stood over Danny's body and talked to him."

She holds her look to him, before glancing away sadly.

"Everything I'd felt until then, I'd managed to bury and persuade myself I was just being a stupid old fool. But in that moment I knew there was no hiding from it anymore."

She nods with a soft, tender expression.

"When Tom shot you," she says quietly.

And his hand involuntarily slides to his shoulder.

"Do you still have a scar?" she asks.

"Yes."

A moment passes as they eat quietly. Both envigorated by the revelation of honesty they had discovered.

"Do you love George, Ruth?"

"You've already asked me that."

"But you didn't answer me."

"He's a kind and good man."

"The truth, please. Just say the truth."

"He's a good and kind man, who gave me a life and made me happy."

"And?"

"And I feel guilty about what has happened and how I've behaved."

"And?"

"I care for him."

"But …you don't love him?"

"No."

"…You love me?"

"Yes."

He lays down his fork, his head bowed.

"What is it?" she asks, concerned.

"Nothing, Ruth."

"This is the point you're meant to feel relatively happy, Harry."

He briskly rubs his hand across his face and looks up at her.

"Relatively?' he asks.

"…Very?" she offers.

"You have no idea, Ruth," it is half smile, half sigh.

"I think I have a clue, Harry."

And they stare across the table, wrapped in truth.

"I wished I was John Fortescu."

The shock spreads across her face, "You knew?"

"I wished you were as preoccupied with me, as you were with him."

She is still surprised, caught. Not that it matters anymore.

"What can I say, I have a thing for men in black tie."

I've got one in the car..." he proffers, making to get up, " ... man for all occasions."

"Liar," she accuses.

And with a smile he concedes.

"Besides I don't want you to go anywhere, not even to change into black tie."

He smiles tenderly but the sadness echoes in his eyes, "I've walked away from you enough, Ruth. Don't you think?"

"Technically I think it was me that did the walking, Harry," she says, just wanting to take the sadness away.

"So what do we do now?" he asks.

"Stop walking," she smiles, "and finish dinner."

* * *

 **Probably one more - but think I may have reached today's limit!**


	6. Chapter 6

The meal is finished in silence. The loudest unspoken silence either have known.

What is not said in words is shouted loud in looks.

What is not declared in any known language is owned and promised in gesture.

And screamed by heart.

She makes to move the dishes.

"Leave them," he says.

But she cannot. And so he follows her to the kitchen, his hands as full as hers. He empties leftovers into the bin, as she stands at the sink rinsing crockery and cutlery.

She feels him behind her. Close but not touching. He waits.

Finally she turns and there he is, eyes heavy and molten.

But sill they do not touch.

If they touch, this moment is broken.

And in this moment everything is enhanced, heightened, enchanted.

So, as one they turn back to the table. He reaches for the second bottle and her for the glasses and he follows her to the sofa where they sit, angled, the one facing the other, as they sip their wine.

"You have to tell me the moment," he says finally.

"The moment?

"That changed things….In Cyprus. In bed."

She hesitates and glances away.

"Have you ever felt ashamed of your behaviour, Harry. I mean, really ashamed? Ashamed that you have betrayed someone you're meant to love. That you've let them down. That you've betrayed their feelings?"

It is his turn to turn his eyes from her.

"You have," she knows without him answering.

"An asset," he says, looking at the floor, "In Moscow. A long time ago."

He takes a long drink, almost emptying the glass.

"I lied to turn her. I loved her and I left her. I betrayed myself as much as her."

"Do you still love her?"

He turns to her, eyes dragged back to something good, something true.

"No, Ruth. No."

"George told me how much he loved me, took me to bed, made love to me, gently, passionately, tenderly," she looks at Harry who nods for her to continue.

"It's okay, you can say it, Ruth, whatever it is."

"It was good. It was really good. Better than I could ever remember ..."

She pauses, looking away from him, ashamed to go on.

"I'd feel a little easier if there was a 'but' approaching soon, Ruth."

Her eyes swing back to his.

"But …all I could see was you. All I wanted was you, Harry... I imagined he was you."

"As 'buts' go, that's not a bad one," he smiles, trying to make it easier for her.

"He didn't deserve it, Harry."

"No, he didn't. But what we deserve and what we get are not always as they should be."

He reaches out an open palm and with little conscious thought her fingers respond, lightly brushing his, touching but not holding, caressing but not cradling.

"Not for one minute do I see how I deserve you, Ruth. Not for one moment do I understand why you would prefer this beaten up old body, to all that you had with him. It makes no sense to me."

She is looking at their hands moving. She does not answer.

"But for all that I don't deserve you, it seems I'm that one that has you. And for that I am truly grateful."

"I don't want you to be grateful."

"Then tell me what you want."

Her hand stops moving over his and slips along his arm and up to his cheek, pulling him to her.

"This…" she whispers, as he feels the breath of the word caress his lips, "I want …this."

And she kisses him.

And he, her.

And it is a kiss deserved and deserving.

* * *

 **Well, that was a rather lengthy day at the keyboard! Hope you enjoyed. Depending on the morning there may be an epilogue.**


	7. Epilogue

**Thank you to those who have reviewed. I found myself needing to get up early and really put this one to bed! Short but concluding.**

* * *

Epilogue

Emotionally charged silence, or brutal open honesty: those had been their default settings for the last twelve hours; and now, after little sleep, they find themselves at the very least, exceedingly late for work.

Across the bedroom, on a small chest of drawers is a framed picture of Nico, it is to that that Ruth is looking, as Harry, half propped on one elbow, lies watching her…not for the first time that night.

"Regrets?" he asks softly.

"I miss Nico," she says, "…and swimming …and the sun on my back."

And suddenly she is on her back and he above her.

"I said the sun on my back, not _being_ on my back.," she laughs.

But he smiles that smile and she feels the radiance of the sun on her front instead.

"No, Harry. No regrets."

"With no caveats?" he asks.

"Kiss me and I'll think about it," she pulls his lips down towards her.

He is obliging. He has been unselfishly obliging all night and what yesterday she honestly described as 'better than she could ever remember' had been superseded beyond all expectation.

"Oh, yes!" she breaks the kiss, "One final caveat."

He rolls away, pulling her with him, until they are side by side, face to face, breath mixing.

"Name it, Ruth. Name anything."

"No more secrets."

His face clouds.

"I'm made of secrets."

Her fingertips run back to the scar on his shoulder.

"From now, Harry, from this moment… I'm not asking you to tell me every 'eyes only' thing you read …I mean between us… in our lives…together."

"Our lives," he repeats.

"…Together," she smiles.

"…Together," he smiles.

It is like an oath.

It is an oath.

And when they step on to the grid, it is with no secrets and no shame and no subterfuge. They step on together and he kisses her briefly on the cheek before they both cross to their desks and begin the work anew.


End file.
